It is Nietzsche’s philosophy presented as the fictional story of
Zarathustra, often presented in parable. Zarathustra urges
his readers, among other things, to embrace this life (not some
invented afterworld), and to follow one’s own creativity and
passion and not some slavish devotion to custom and tradition
and the crowd, and to thus usher in an era of transcendent
humanity and morality.

My hope in creating these excerpts is that you will be motivated
to buy a copy and read the entire text.

First Part

1. on the three metamorphoses

Of three metamorphoses of the spirit I tell you: how the spirit
becomes a camel; and the camel, a lion; and the lion, finally, a
child.

There is much that is difficult for the spirit, the strong
reverent spirit that would bear much: but the difficult and the
most difficult are what its strength demands.

What is difficult? asks the spirit that would bear much, and kneels
down like a camel wanting to be well loaded. What is most
difficult, O heroes, asks the spirit that would bear much, that
I may take it upon myself and exult in my strength? Is it not
humbling oneself to wound one’s haughtiness? Letting one’s
folly shine to mock one’s wisdom?

Or is it this: parting from our cause when it triumphs?
Climbing high mountains to tempt the tempter?

Or is it this: feeding on the acorns and grass of knowledge and,
for the sake of the truth, suffering hunger in one’s soul?

Or is it this: being sick and sending home the comforters and
making friends with the deaf, who never hear what you want?

Or is it this: stepping into filthy waters when they are the
waters of truth, and not repulsing cold frogs and hot toads?

Or is it this: loving those who despise us and offering a hand
to the ghost that would frighten us?

All these most difficult things the spirit that would bear much
takes upon itself: like the camel that, burdened, speeds into
the desert, thus the spirit speeds into its desert.

In the loneliest desert, however, the second metamorphosis
occurs: here the spirit becomes a lion who would conquer his
freedom and be master in his own desert. Here he seeks out his
last master: he wants to fight him and his last god; for
ultimate victory he wants to fight with the great dragon.

Who is the great dragon whom the spirit will no longer call lord
and god? Thou shalt is the name of the great dragon. But
the spirit of the lion says, I will.Thou shalt
lies in his way, sparkling like gold, an animal covered with
scales; and on every scale shines a golden thou shalt.

Values, thousands of years old, shine on these scales; and thus
speaks the mightiest of all dragons: All value of all things
shines on me. All value has long been created, and I am all
created value. Verily, there shall be no more ‘I
will.’ Thus speaks the dragon.

My brothers, why is there a need in the spirit for the lion?
Why is not the beast of burden, which renounces and is reverent,
enough?

To create new values—that even the lion cannot do; but the
creation of freedom for oneself for new creation—that is
within the power of the lion. The creation of freedom for
oneself and a sacred No even to duty—for that, my
brothers, the lion is needed. To assume the right to new
values—that is the most terrifying assumption for a
reverent spirit that would bear much. Verily, to him it is
preying, and a matter for a beast of prey. He once loved
thou shalt as most sacred: now he must find illusion and
caprice even in the most sacred, that freedom from his love may
become his prey: the lion is needed for such prey.

But say, my brothers, what can the child do that even the lion
could not do? Why must the preying lion still become a child?
The child is innocence and forgetting, a new beginning, a game,
a self-propelled wheel, a first movement, a sacred Yes.
For the game of creation, my brothers, a sacred Yes is
needed: the spirit now wills his own will, and he who had been
lost to the world now conquers his own world.

Of three metamorphoses of the spirit I have told you: how the
spirit became a camel; and the camel, a lion; and the lion,
finally, a child.

Thus spoke Zarathustra. And at the time he sojourned in the
town called the Motley Cow.

5. on enjoying and suffering the passions

My brother, if you have a virtue and she is your virtue, then
you have her in common with nobody. To be sure, you want to
call her by name and pet her; you want to pull her ear and have
fun with her. And behold, now you have her name in common with
the people and have become one of the people and herd with your
virtue.

You would do better to say, Inexpressible and nameless is
that which gives my soul agony and sweetness and is even the
hunger of my entrails.

May your virtue be too exalted for the familiarity of names: and
if you must speak of her, then do not be ashamed to stammer of
her. Then speak and stammer, This is my good; this
I love; it pleases me wholly; thus alone do I want the
good. I do not want it as divine law; I do not want it as human
statute and need: it shall not be a signpost for me to
overearths and paradises. It is an earthly virtue that I love:
there is little prudence in it, and least of all the reason of
all men. But this bird built its nest with me: therefore I love
and caress it; now it dwells with me, sitting on its golden
eggs. Thus you shall stammer and praise your virtue.

Once you suffered passions and called them evil. But now you
have only your virtues left: they grew out of your passions.
You commended your highest goal to the heart of these passions:
then they become your virtues and passions you enjoyed.

And whether you came from the tribe of the choleric or of the
voluptuous or of the fanatic or of the vengeful, in the end all
your passions became virtues and all your devils, angels. Once
you had wild dogs in your cellar, but in the end they turned
into birds and lovely singers. Out of your poisons you brewed
your balsam. You milked your cow, melancholy; now you drink the
sweet milk of her udder.

And nothing evil grows out of you henceforth, unless it be the
evil that grows out of the fight among your virtues. My
brother, if you are fortunate you have only one virtue and no
more: then you will pass over the bridge more easily. It is a
distinction to have many virtues, but a hard lot; and many have
gone into the desert and taken their lives because they had
wearied of being the battle and battlefield of virtues.

My brother, are war and battle evil? But this evil is
necessary; necessary are the envy and mistrust and calumny among
your virtues. Behold how each of your virtues covets what is
highest: each wants your whole spirit that it might become
her herald; each wants your whole strength in wrath,
hatred, and love. Each virtue is jealous of the others, and
jealousy is a terrible thing. Virtues too can perish of
jealousy. Surrounded by the flame of jealousy, one will in the
end, like the scorpion, turn one’s poisonous sting against
oneself. Alas, my brother, have you never yet seen a virtue
deny and stab herself? Man is something that must be overcome;
and therefore you shall love your virtues, for you will perish
of them.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

8. on the tree on the mountainside

Zarathustra’s eye had noted that a youth avoided him. And one
evening as he walked alone through the mountains surrounding the
town which is called The Motley Cow—behold, on his walk he
found this youth as he sat leaning against a tree, looking
wearily into the valley. Zarathustra gripped the tree under
which the youth was sitting and spoke thus:

If I wanted to shake this tree with my hands I should not be
able to do it. But the wind, which we do not see, tortures and
bends it in whatever direction it pleases. It is by invisible
hands that we are bent and tortured worst.

Then the youth got up in consternation and said: I hear
Zarathustra, and just now I was thinking of him. Zarathustra
replied: Why should that frighten you? But it is with man as
it is with the tree. The more he aspires to the height and
light, the more strongly do his roots strive earthward,
downward, into the dark, the deep—into evil.

Yes, into evil! cried the youth. How is it possible
that you discovered my soul?

Zarathustra smiled and said: Some souls one will never
discover, unless one invents them first.

Yes, into evil! the youth cried once more. You have
spoken the truth, Zarathustra. I no longer trust myself since I
aspire to the height, and nobody trusts me any more; how did
this happen? I change too fast: my today refutes my yesterday.
I often skip steps when I climb: no step forgives me that. When
am I at the top I always find myself alone; the frost of
loneliness makes me shiver. What do I want up high? My
contempt and my longing grow at the same time; the higher I
climb, the more I despise the climber. What does he want up
high? How ashamed I am of my climbing and stumbling! How I
mock at my violent panting! How I hate the flier! How weary I
am up high!

Here the youth stopped. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree
beside which they stood and spoke thus: This tree stands
lonely here in the mountains; it grew high above man and beast.
And if it wanted to speak it would have nobody who could
understand it, so high has it grown. Now it waits and
waits—for what is it waiting? It dwells too near the seat
of the clouds: surely, it waits for the first lightning.

When Zarathustra had said this the youth cried with violent
gestures: Yes, Zarathustra, you are speaking the truth. I
longed to go under when I aspired to the height, and you are the
lightning for which I waited. Behold, what am I, now that you
have appeared among us? It is the envy of you that has
destroyed me. Thus spoke the youth, and he wept bitterly.
But Zarathustra put his arm around him and led him away. And
when they had walked together for a while, Zarathustra began to
speak thus: “It tears my heart. Better than your words
tell it, your eyes tell me of all your dangers. You are not yet
free, you still search for freedom. You are worn from
your search and overawake. You aspire to the free heights, your
soul thirsts for the stars. But your wicked instincts, too,
thirst for freedom. Your wild dogs want freedom; they bark with
joy in their cellar when your spirit plans to open all prisons.
To me you are still a prisoner who is plotting his freedom:
alas, in such prisoners the soul becomes clever, but also
deceitful and bad. And even the liberated spirit must still
purify himself. Much prison and mustiness still remain in him:
his eyes must still become pure.

“Indeed, I know your danger. But by my love and hope I
beseech you: do not throwaway your love and hope.

“You still feel noble, and the others too feel your
nobility, though they bear you a grudge and send you evil
glances. Know that the noble man stands in everybody’s way.
The noble man stands in the way of the good too: and even if
they call him one of the good, they thus want to do away with
him. The noble man wants to create something new and a new
virtue. The good want the old, and that the old be preserved.
But this is not the danger of the noble man, that he might
become one of the good, but a churl, a mocker, a destroyer.

“Alas, I knew noble men who lost their highest hope. Then
they slandered all high hopes. Then they lived impudently in
brief pleasures and barely cast their goals beyond the day.
Spirit too is lust, so they said. Then the wings of their
spirit broke: and now their spirit crawls about and soils what
it gnaws. Once they thought of becoming heroes: now they are
voluptuaries. The hero is for them an offense and a fright.

But by my love and hope I beseech you: do not throwaway the
hero in your soul! Hold holy your highest hope!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

11. on the new idol

Somewhere there are still peoples and herds, but not where we
live, my brothers: here there are states. State? What is that?
Well then, open your ears to me, for now I shall speak to you
about the death of peoples.

State is the name of the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly
it tells lies too; and this lie crawls out of its mouth: I,
the state, am the people. That is a lie! It was creators
who created peoples and hung a faith and a love over them: thus
they served life.

It is annihilators who set traps for the many and call them
state: they hang a sword and a hundred appetites over
them.

Where there is still a people, it does not understand the state
and hates it as the evil eye and the sin against customs and
rights.

This sign I give you: every people speaks its tongue of good and
evil, which the neighbor does not understand. It has invented
its own language of customs and rights. But the state tells
lies in all the tongues of good and evil; and whatever it says
it lies—and whatever it has it has stolen. Everything
about it is false; it bites with stolen teeth, and bites easily.
Even its entrails are false. Confusion of tongues of good and
evil: this sign I give you as the sign of the state. Verily,
this sign signifies the will to death. Verily, it beckons to
the preachers of death.

All-too-many are born: for the superfluous the state was
invented.

Behold, how it lures them, the all-too-many—and how it
devours them, chews them, and ruminates!

On earth there is nothing greater than I: the ordering finger
of God am I—thus roars the monster. And it is not
only the long-eared and shortsighted who sink to their knees.
Alas, to you too, you great souls, it whispers its dark lies.
Alas, it detects the rich hearts which like to squander
themselves. Indeed, it detects you too, you vanquishers of the
old god. You have grown weary with fighting, and now your
weariness still serves the new idol. With heroes and honorable
men it would surround itself, the new idol! It likes to bask in
the sunshine of good consciences—the cold monster!

It will give you everything if you will adore it, this new idol:
thus it buys the splendor of your virtues and the look of your
proud eyes. It would use you as bait for the all-too-many.

Indeed, a hellish artifice was invented there, a horse of death,
clattering in the finery of divine honors. Indeed, a dying for
many was invented there, which praises itself as life: verily, a
great service to all preachers of death!

State I call it where all drink poison, the good and the wicked;
state, where all lose themselves, the good and the wicked;
state, where the slow suicide of all is called life.

Behold the superfluous! They steal the works of the inventors
and the treasures of the sages for themselves; education
they call their theft—and everything turns to sickness and
misfortune for them.

Behold the superfluous! They are always sick; they vomit their
gall and call it a newspaper. They devour each other and cannot
even digest themselves.

Behold the superfluous! They gather riches and become poorer
with them. They want power and first the lever of power, much
money—the impotent paupers!

Watch them clamber, these swift monkeys! They clamber over one
another and thus drag one another into the mud and the depth.
They all want to get to the throne: that is their
madness—as if happiness sat on the throne. Often mud sits
on the throne—and often also the throne on mud. Mad they
all appear to me, clambering monkeys and overardent. Foul
smells their idol, the cold monster: foul they smell to me
altogether, these idolators.

My brothers, do you want to suffocate in the fumes of their
snouts and appetites? Rather break the windows and leap to
freedom.

Escape from the bad smell! Escape from the idolatry of the
superfluous!

Escape from the bad smell! Escape from the steam of these human
sacrifices!

The earth is free even now for great souls. There are still
many empty seats for the lonesome and the twosome, fanned by the
fragrance of silent seas.

A free life is still free for great souls. Verily, whoever
possesses little is possessed that much less: praised be a
little poverty!

Only where the state ends, there begins the human being who is
not superfluous: there begins the song of necessity, the unique
and inimitable tune.

Where the state ends—look there, my brothers! Do
you not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the overman?

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

12. on the flies of the market place

Flee, my friend, into your solitude! I see you dazed by the
noise of the great men and stung all over by the stings of the
little men. Woods and crags know how to keep a dignified
silence with you. Be like the tree that you love with its wide
branches: silently listening, it hangs over the sea.

Where solitude ceases the market place begins; and where the
market place begins the noise of the great actors and the
buzzing of the poisonous flies begins too. In the world even
the best things amount to nothing without someone to make a show
of them: great men the people call these showmen.

Little do the people comprehend the great—that is, the
creating. But they have a mind for all showmen and actors of
great things.

Around the inventors of new values the world revolves: invisibly
it revolves. But around the actors revolve the people and fame:
that is the way of the world.

The actor has spirit but little conscience of the spirit.
Always he has faith in that with which he inspires the most
faith—faith in himself. Tomorrow he has a new faith, and
the day after tomorrow a newer one. He has quick senses, like
the people, and capricious moods. To overthrow—that means
to him: to prove. To drive to frenzy—that means to him:
to persuade. And blood is to him the best of all reasons. A
truth that slips into delicate ears alone he calls a lie and
nothing. Verily, he believes only in gods who make a big noise
in the world!

Full of solemn jesters is the market place—and the people
pride themselves on their great men, their masters of the hour.
But the hour presses them; so they press you. And from you too
they want a Yes or No. Alas, do you want to place your chair
between pro and con?

Do not be jealous of these unconditional, pressing men, you
lover of truth! Never yet has truth hung on the arm of the
unconditional. On account of these sudden men, go back to your
security: it is only in the market place that one is assaulted
with Yes? or No? Slow is the experience of all deep wells: long
must they wait before they know what fell into their
depth. Far from the market place and from fame happens all that
is great: far from the market place and from fame the inventors
of new values have always dwelt.

Flee, my friend, into your solitude: I see you stung all over by
poisonous flies. Flee where the air is raw and strong.

Flee into your solitude! You have lived too close to the small
and the miserable. Flee their invisible revenge! Against you
they are nothing but revenge.

No longer raise up your arm against them. Numberless are they,
and it is not your lot to shoo flies. Numberless are these
small and miserable creatures; and many a proud building has
perished of raindrops and weeds. You are no stone, but you have
already become hollow from many drops. You will yet burst from
many drops. I see you wearied by poisonous flies, bloody in a
hundred places; and your pride refuses even to be angry. Blood
is what they want from you in all innocence. Their bloodless
souls crave blood, and so they sting in all innocence. But you,
you deep one, suffer too deeply even from small wounds; and even
before you have healed, the same poisonous worm crawls over your
hand. You are too proud to kill these greedy creatures. But
beware lest it become your downfall that you suffer all their
poisonous injustice.

They hum around you with their praise too: obtrusiveness is
their praise. They want the proximity of your skin and your
blood. They flatter you as a god or devil; they whine before
you as before a god or devil. What does it matter? They are
flatterers and whiners and nothing more.

Often they affect charm. But that has always been the
cleverness of cowards. Indeed, cowards are clever! They think
a lot about you with their petty souls—you always seem
problematic to them. Everything that one thinks about a lot
becomes problematic.

They punish you for all your virtues. They forgive you
entirely—your mistakes.

Because you are gentle and just in disposition you say, They
are guiltless in their small existence. But their petty
souls think, Guilt is every great existence.

Even when you are gentle to them they still feel despised by
you: and they return your benefaction with hidden malefactions.
Your silent pride always runs counter to their taste; they are
jubilant if for once you are modest enough to be vain. That
which we recognize in a person we also inflame in him:
therefore, beware of the small creatures. Before you they feel
small, and their baseness glimmers and glows in invisible
revenge. Have you not noticed how often they became mute when
you stepped among them, and how their strength went from them
like smoke from a dying fire? Indeed, my friend, you are the
bad conscience of your neighbors: for they are unworthy of you.
They hate you, therefore, and would like to suck your blood.
Your neighbors will always be poisonous flies; that which is
great in you, just that must make them more poisonous and more
like flies.

Flee, my friend, into your solitude and where the air is raw and
strong! It is not your lot to shoo flies.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

17. on the way of the creator

Is it your wish, my brother, to go into solitude? Is it your
wish to seek the way to yourself? Then linger a moment, and
listen to me.

He who seeks, easily gets lost. All loneliness is
guilt—thus speaks the herd. And you have long
belonged to the herd. The voice of the herd will still be
audible in you. And when you will say, I no longer have a
common conscience with you, it will be a lament and an
agony. Behold, this agony itself was born of the common
conscience, and the last glimmer of that conscience still glows
on your affliction.

But do you want to go the way of your affliction, which is the
way to yourself? Then show me your right and your strength to
do so. Are you a new strength and a new right? A first
movement? A self-propelled wheel? Can you compel the very
stars to revolve around you?

Alas, there is so much lusting for the heights! There are so
many convulsions of the ambitious. Show me that you are not one
of the lustful and ambitious.

Alas, there are so many great thoughts which do no more than a
bellows: they puff up and make emptier.

You call yourself free? Your dominant thought I want to hear,
and not that you have escaped from a yoke. Are you one of those
who had the right to escape from a yoke? There are
some who threw away their last value when they threw away their
servitude.

Free from what? As if that mattered to Zarathustra!
But your eyes should tell me brightly: free for what?

Can you give yourself your own evil and your own good and hang
your own will over yourself as a law? Can you be your own judge
and avenger of your law? Terrible it is to be alone with the
judge and avenger of one’s own law. Thus is a star thrown out
into the void and into the icy breath of solitude. Today you
are still suffering from the many, being one: today your courage
and your hopes are still whole. But the time will come when
solitude will make you weary, when your pride will double up,
and your courage gnash its teeth. And you will cry, I am
alone! The time will come when that which seems high to you
will no longer be in sight, and that which seems low will be
all-too-near; even what seems sublime to you will frighten you
like a ghost. And you will cry, All is false!

There are feelings which want to kill the lonely; and if they do
not succeed, well, then they themselves must die. But are you
capable of this—to be a murderer?

My brother, do you know the word contempt yet? And the
agony of your justice—being just to those who despise you?
You force many to relearn about you; they charge it bitterly
against you. You came close to them and yet passed by: that
they will never forgive. You pass over and beyond them: but the
higher you ascend, the smaller you appear to the eye of envy.
But most of all they hate those who fly.

How would you be just to me? you must say. I choose
your injustice as my proper lot. Injustice and filth they
throw after the lonely one: but, my brother, if you would be a
star, you must not shine less for them because of that.

And beware of the good and the just! They like to crucify those
who invent their own virtue for themselves—they hate the
lonely one. Beware also of holy simplicity! Everything that is
not simple it considers unholy; it also likes to play with
fire—the stake. And beware also of the attacks of your
love! The lonely one offers his hand too quickly to whomever he
encounters. To some people you may not give your hand, only a
paw: and I desire that your paw should also have claws.

But the worst enemy you can encounter will always be you,
yourself; you lie in wait for yourself in caves and woods.

Lonely one, you are going the way to yourself. And your way
leads past yourself and your seven devils. You will be a
heretic to yourself and a witch and soothsayer and fool and
doubter and unholy one and a villain. You must wish to consume
yourself in your own flame: how could you wish to become new
unless you had first become ashes!

Lonely one, you are going the way of the creator: you would
create a god for yourself out of your seven devils.

Lonely one, you are going the way of the lover: yourself you
love, and therefore you despise yourself, as only lovers
despise. The lover would create because ye despises. What does
he know of love who did not have to despise precisely what he
loved!

Go into your loneliness with your love and with your creation,
my brother; and only much later will justice limp after you.

With my tears go into your loneliness, my brother. I love him
who wants to create over and beyond himself and thus perishes.